The Lost Boys: a History
by Pandora-isavamp
Summary: Ever wonder how the boys were turned and ended up in Santa Carla? My version of their deaths and lives. My first fanfic ever! Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. David's Death

Cold wind blasted his face, carrying with it the tang of salt. The ship bucked and bowed with the waves, and while everyone else scurried to get the cannons tied down, David scaled the mast. Ropes lashed out, threatening to knock him into the raging waters below. The ship tipped dangerously to the side, and David thought that if it rocked just a bit farther he could touch the waves; but the ship righted itself and started to tip in the opposite direction

"WOO," David yelled in elation. His thick coat flapped in the vicious wind that knocked the ship across the waves. He could see the crew scampering around the main deck like cockroaches scurrying away from a death-carrying boot. Adrenaline and youth pumped through his veins, this was the way to live, on the edge, no fear, pure fun. He didn't see the death-carrying wave that capsized his vessel.

Cold. Not the regular cold of ocean air and northern winter, but the bone-freezing chill of constricting fabric weighted down with glacier cold water. His lungs wouldn't work. They felt as though a cannon ball had hit him in the chest and permanently flattened his lungs. He couldn't tell if his heart was beating, could be it was pumping enough blood for fifty men or was perfectly still. A cough racked his young body, and a fountain of water spewed from his mouth and nose.

"He's breathing"

Yes, he was breathing but it was painful. Each breath burned his raw throat and salt coated it so that each inhale and exhale felt like swallowing gravel. Uncontrollable shivers shook his body. His coat was heavy, and his limbs wouldn't work.

"Get him inside. Hurry!"

He was lifted into the air. _Am i dead? Am i floating to Heaven?_

_ Not Heaven, boy._

_ Who said that? _But his mouth couldn't form the words aloud, and blackness claimed him again.

A dim light threw dark shapes and shadows up on the walls, which swayed in the consuming black. There was a soft weight on top of him, blankets. But his body was still freezing and this realization released another wave of shivers.

Outside the wind howled, water beat the hull, and the vessel creaked. A shadow moved closer, settling into the shape of a man. _His mind must be playing tricks on him. _David felt numb, cold, and fevered all at once, and another wave of shivers racked his body. His stomach tried to expel its contents, salt water and bile scorched his already abused throat.

"So you're awake, again," said the shadow-man.

David's brain was still working to reclaim reality. He heard the soothing cascade of sound coming from the shadowed figure, but had yet to associate the sounds with their meanings.

"David you're body's dying."

_ The voice, it sounded familiar, like a half remembered childhood dream, but as to which dream it belonged to David couldn't tell._

"Drink this David." _Be one of us. _

The cool lip of a glass was pressed against his lips. Its thick contents filled his mouth and dribbled down his face. It was salty and tasted of metal. But it wasn't an unpleasant taste, even if David hadn't been at Death's door it would have tasted rich, hearty and like life itself.


	2. Paul's Death

Laughter mixed in the air with the sounds of the orchestra hidden some where along the far wall. A blond figure was draped ever so casually across a velvet couch, a girl in a blue satin sprawled across his lap, and a wine bottle held in his grasp.

"Come on ma cherie," he urged taking a swig form the bottle and offering it to her.

"No, Paul," she complained,"let's dance."

"Alright, if you insist."

Three large gulps saw the bottle empty, and Paul tossed it to the couch, as another laughing couple occupied their vacated seats. With a sort of dancing swagger Paul maneuvered them onto the dace floor full of swirling skirts and the clack of fine heels.

A figure stared as a happily drunk Paul pulled the girl inappropriately close to himself, and joyfully cut a path through the ranks of noble men and women. Energetic and blissfully intoxicated, Paul careened around the floor, exciting encouragement from the young aristocrats who adored him, and disapproving glances from down the long, pinched noses of the older generations. He loved attention. Loved the thrill of adoration and admiration. And yet he could be quiet.

"Come on," he whispered, warm breath against the shell of her ear, as he lead her by the hand through the crowd, out the paneled doors thrown wide open, into the garden. They walked farther and further into the maze of hedges, past ornate arrangements of exotic flowers, gently splashing fountains, the sighs of couples. The lanterns seemed few and far between, Paul was content. He spun her around and backed her up into a hedge. His mouth attacked hers with a voraciousness and his hunger rose. His arms drew her body closer, till he could feel the wild rise and fall of her tightly corseted bosom against his chest. Hands groped. His hands slid into the folds of her skirt, and lifted her with a strength he didn't remember them having. His mouth moved from her lips and buried itself in her neck. The feel of teeth against skin. She was unconscious before Paul could feel the warmth running down his chin. But he didn't stop. And she became a dead weight in his arms.

A figure perched atop a nearby hedge applauded. Paul looked up, blood dripping from his lips. The figure soared to the ground and moved into the light.

He was pale. White blond hair long enough to be pulled into a small ponytail. Body wrapped in a thick black old naval coat. Old, ancient, not French, something, some place to the far north, lost in time. A single medallion disrupted the void of that ancient coat. Piercing eyes stared into Paul's soul.

"Nice job," the figure nudged the body with a booted toe.

Paul saw the body and tasted her blood. And he didn't regret it.

"Your one of us now, Paul."

He felt like flying, in fact he was levitating. "Haha ha, Wait whose us?"

"The immortal, the eternally young, you just became the second Lost Boy. And I'm your brother."

"Funny sort, aren't you? Immortality sounds superb but that still doesn't explain the warm tingly flying thing. But being drunk does. I'm drunk."

"You're drunk but on alcohol, on bloodlust."

"That explains ... bugger can't remember her name. The one on the ground, pretty girl. Hold on if you're my brother I should know your name."

"Right I'm David."


	3. Dwayne's Death

"Get out of here, ya filthy injun!"

A mass of dark hair and clothes came tumbling down the saloon steps. Righting himself and brushing sand and dirt from his pants a stoic faced Dwayne turned down the main road and ambled off towards the edge of town.

The sun had just set and the desert town was wrapped in the dead red purple of twilight. Dust was kicked up as Dwayne shuffled to his house outside of town. He never could make it through his first glass without someone starting something. All his life he'd dealt with the side-ways glances the sneers and the punches. Rage seethed in his heart and he kicked the stair of the general store in passing to vent some of his hate into the empty air. But it was no good he had an endless pool of rage, always had; had since the loss of his parents, no before that, since the first time he was told he was different, that he wasn't fit to step in the school house, that he was only worth was as the resting place of a bullet, that his only friends would be the coyotes. Well he'd be a coyote then silent

prowling 'round the edge of town eyes dark and gleaming, wild. He'd hold the rage back until like a coyote provoked to desperation he'd leap at your throat. The provocation, the final one, that broke the mules back, was approaching but not yet, not yet. For now he just stood tall and walked silently by defying everyone with his simple dark presence in their dusty white town

The coyotes howled across the flats. The temperature was starting to drop rapidly as it is wont to do in the desert. He could see the silhouette to his dwelling hunched against the deep purple blue black of the night sky. The wind was coming up, Dwayne wrenched open the door and let the wind slam it shut behind him.

His furniture was occupied. A man sat in the only chair by the minimalist table his father had made. Another sprawled across his bed, rumpling the blanket. This was not the first time people had attacked him at home. Every so often, someone would take it into his head to drive Dwayne out of town once and for all. No one had ever succeeded. Dwayne spared the men's lives, if only because he knew that killing white men would be a sure way to rid the town of him by way of the noose, but each time such an incident occurred the pit of hate that he carried within himself deepened and seethed. But these men were different. He had not seen them before. They had not yet offered him violence. Yet.

"Get out," Dwayne growled.

"We only came over to be friendly," said the one on the bed, smiling cheerfully. He had blond hair flowing loose around his shoulder blades, and a fine coat that was designed for elegance, not for the empty desert.

"We have an offer for you," said the one at the table coolly.

"Ain't nothin' I need or want from you," Dwayne replied, his body tensing. These men weren't right, they're words sounded sinister, but they still remained relaxed, not having moved an inch from the comfortable places they'd adopted on his furniture.

"Oh, but there is something you want," said the man in the chair. He wore a heavy coat, his hands lost in it's folds. He stood up scraping the chair legs across the floor. Dwayne took a step back away from the man as he moved to close the distance between them.

"Freedom, that's what you want," the coated stranger whispered. Dwayne jumped _How'd he get behind me?_ The blond on the bed laughed raucously at Dwayne's reaction."Freedom, to unleash the rage within you," continued the other, as he paced round Dwayne. "And I can give it to you."

Dwayne stood paralyzed, it was his greatest desire to make this town pay for the hell it had made his life, but he couldn't trust these men, could he? He'd never been able to trust anyone, not even his own kin. But the promise of freedom to unleash the rage that colored his vision everyday, and boiled in his chest, was intoxicating.

"Why?" Dwayne's voice was a hoarse whisper, "why offer this to me? What do you get? What do you want?"

The blond who had been lounging on the bed had now gotten up to answer the question. "We just want at have a fun," he said slinging an arm over the shoulders of the other man.

"What Paul means to say," replied the coated man, while shrugging off the other mans arm, "is that, having you as a comrade and friend, well, we could make all kinds of trouble. We want a brother to run and wreak havoc with us, and I think I'm right in saying that you could use guys at your back." He reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle ornately decorated in precious metals and jewels. "Have a drink with us." He held the bottle out to Dwayne.

The bottle was cold in his hand but the liquid within burned and heated his body. And when it met the pit of rage in his chest the world exploded into a red haze of bloodlust. Dwayne, followed by Paul, and David, ran into town, and when the sun rose Dwayne was far away with his new brothers and there was nothing left in that town in the desert but ghosts.


End file.
